The Final Piece
by classicdoctorwhorocks
Summary: Mike, Micky and Davy are now a trio, and are quite happy to stay that way. However, Fate is soon to intervene. Turns out Fate's name is Peter Tork.
1. Chapter 1

**Mike, Micky and Davy are now a trio, and are quite happy to stay that way. However, Fate is soon to intervene. Turns out Fate's name is Peter Tork.**

Chapter 1

Peter was in a bin.

It sounded way worse than it was, when he thought about it. It was quite a nice bin. The trash had been taken out of it, the lid wasn't stiff, and it had a nice musty smell. In a way, it reminded him of the Thinking Cupboard back home.

It was a system he'd had with his mother when he was little. If he didn't understand something that his father had said or done, or the way something worked, he'd sit in the Thinking Cupboard until his mother found him and explained it to him. As he got older, it had become more of a den for reading, drawing, smuggling food upstairs for midnight snacks, etcetera.

Yes. It was a very nice place to sleep.

He wasn't sure what time it was. When he'd clambered into the plastic bin-on-wheels for the night, the sun had long since gone down. The rain battering the lid and sides felt like a steady thrum, like resting his head against the inside of a moving car. Peter felt his eyes slip closed, and he fell into a much appreciated sleep.

[]

Michael Nesmith woke up groggily, and looked around him from his comfortable position on the bed.

His bandmate and friend Micky was asleep in the next bed, his round face smiling slightly even in his sleep. He knew that their fellow bandmate, Davy, was in the room opposite.

Despite being the first to rise most mornings, it often took him a lot of effort to motivate himself enough to get out of bed. With a grunt, the skinny Texan swung his legs down to the floor, ignoring their protests.

As he went downstairs, he checked the trash can. They'd gone out for takeaways, and chucked the remains in there. Mike hoisted the bag out of the bin, tied a neat knot, and headed outside to put out the trash.

There had been rain the night before, and a considerable amount of water had pooled in the hollow of the lid. Ignoring it, Mike opened the lid, sending the water into the bottom of the bin- or rather, all over the hobo inside the bin. The hobo, having had a litre of freezing water suddenly run down his neck in the middle of his nap, did the obvious thing.

'AAAAAAAAHHHHHH!' The hobo screamed, springing up out of the bin to come face-to-face with Mike.

'AAAAAAAAHHHHHH!' Mike screamed, out of complete shock. He was fairly sure that not many people's bins contained people, and he definitely didn't like being one of them.

Once he'd regained the use of his voice, he directed his frustration at the nearest living thing. Namely, the culprit himself.

'WHAT THE HELL D'YA THINK YER DOIN'?!' He yelled, accent thickening with his anger. 'G'WAN! SCRAM!' The unfortunate boy didn't need telling twice; he took off before Mike had even finished.

Mike had a twinge of guilt when he saw the trail of water behind him, but shook it off.

What kind of an idiot slept in a goddamn bin anyway?


	2. Chapter 2

**First reviewer! It's a great feeling, when the first person expresses what they feel about your work. Thank you so much, Hippiepoet! In answer to your question, I'm hoping to explore how Micky, Mike and Davy became roommates in the first place, and I've got a pretty neat one for Mike and Micky especially!**

Mike was in town, looking for a job.

He was in one of his favourite job-hunting spots- an alleyway. Specifically, a very busy alleyway where people often plastered advertisements or more importantly, audition openings. However, there was nothing big coming up, so he headed for home.

As he was walking quickly, he knocked into someone walking round the corner. He spotted a cloth bag fly out of the person's hand, and into the road. Seconds later, it was run over by a car, with an audible squelch.

He helped the young man up, his mouth forming an apology. As he saw the man's face, his 'sorry' turned into the word,

'You!'

The hobo who he'd encountered that morning was actually no more than a boy, with dark blonde hair which hung in his face. His clothes looked like they'd grown a permanent coating of dirt, and he wasn't carrying any more bags. He also needed a shave.

'Oh hey, it's you!' The boy grinned happily. 'I met you this morning! That sure is a coincidence! Sorry about that, by the way. That was my food bag. Guess that's what happens when you don't look where you're going, huh?'

'Actually, I wasn't looking where I was going either,' Mike replied. 'By the way- _Why do you not hate me? _In one day I've drenched you in rainwater, chased you onto the streets, and now I've just lost your whole food supply! Aren't you just a bit angry?'

'Not really,' the boy shrugged. 'Do you _want _me to be angry?'

'Well, no, but-'

'Then that's okay then.' He said simply. 'My name's Peter, by the way. What's yours?'

'Michael Nesmith. My friends call me Mike.'

'Oh. Do I count?'

'I guess.' Mike said.

'Great. It was good to meet you, Mike.' Peter waved, and carried on his way. As he did so, Mike noticed his shoes made a sound a bit like a duck as he walked. They must still have water in them. And his clothes were probably damp…

Before he knew what he was doing, he cupped his hands to his mouth, and yelled,

'Hey Pete!' Peter stopped in his tracks and turned around curiously. 'Come to mine and get a change of clothes! I feel soggy just looking at you!'

[]

'So… what did you say his name was?' Davy asked Mike, as they sat in the sitting room debating their new guest.

'His name's Peter Tork,' Mike began.

'Huh. Figures. _I'd _probably leave home if I had a name like that.' said Micky jokingly.

'Tork, not Dork. Don't know where he's from.'

'Sounds like further East. Maybe Connecticut?' Davy offered.

'That far? That's a pretty long way.'

'About 3,000 miles,' Micky said in awe. 'How the heck did he manage that?'

'I have to say, he wasn't very well prepared for the whole traveling thing,' Mike thought aloud. 'Looks like he was in a hurry. I wonder why…'

Before they could say anything else, they heard the keyboard playing.

'Wait a minute; who's that?' Mike said. 'Davy?'

'Right here, mate,' answered Davy. 'Micky?'

'Nope. Not me, bro,' said Micky. 'Mi- no, it's not you, you're the one who brought it up.'

They listened for a few seconds.

'You don't think…' Mike started.

'Well, who else could it be?'

They poked their heads round the door, and saw Peter perched on the end of the chair, his attention only on the strange tune that he was fiddling with.

'Hey, Peter.' Mike said quietly. Peter raised his eyes guiltily from the keys, but relaxed when he saw them.

'Oh, it's you,' he said, relieved.

'Who did you think it was?' Davy asked. He received only a shrug in reply.

Mike frowned. There were too many unanswered questions about their guest, which he needed answering. For now though, he decided to work on this new development.

'Pete,' he said carefully. 'There's this song that I've been working on, and I was wondering if…'


	3. Chapter 3

**Just a quick note. I am not very good at structured stories. I have a sort of 'Planning? Who needs it!' attitude towards stories. As a result, my posting routine will be far from regular. Apologies.**

[]

Peter flopped back on the spare bed in exhaustion.

The playing had been amazing. It had been ages since he'd been able to play like that. He hadn't been able to play the piano since he left Newtown and Mrs Gray.

Mrs Gray was an old lady who lived a couple of doors down from the Tork family. She had been like a teacher to him, and let him play her grand piano where his father couldn't catch him. She'd also taught him that making a mistake was okay, so long as you recognised that it was yours, and fixed it if you could.

He'd never played with other people before, and she liked the way that the drumbeat, the guitar riff, and the hastily made keyboard part merged together, but at the same time were so different. He knew he couldn't have done something like that on his own, no matter how many hands he had.

He was wearing a pair of brown trousers, and an orange sweater of Micky's. It was a bit big, but not nearly as bad as his old, waterlogged ones.

Suddenly struck with a thought, he grabbed an unwanted piece of paper which was abandoned on the floor, and grabbed a pencil from Davy's drawers. He began to write.

He heard Davy enter. Peter quickly put the pencil down, and smiled at the shorter musician.

'What're you doin'?' The English boy said curiously.

'Writing a letter to my mother,' Peter explained. 'I write a letter to her at each place I stop at.'

'How d'you post 'em? You don't have much money, do you?'

'I haven't been able to post any yet,' he confessed quietly. 'I've tried saving up, but…'

'Yeah.' Davy suddenly had an idea. 'Say, why don't I lend you a stamp and envelope? Then you can send that letter!'

'I can't do that!' Peter protested. 'It'll cost a lot!'

'Look. Mike and Micky have to share a room, while I've got this one to myself. I've got more than enough room for you in here. Plus, if you get a job, you can pay me back for the stamp and envelope.'

'I… I suppose that makes sense…'

'But first things first,' Davy continued, digging through his drawers. He fished something out, and tossed it to Peter, who dropped it. 'Go and have a shave. I'd feel better sleeping in the same room as you if I knew what you actually look like!'

[]

'So… remind me again why he's staying?' Micky said, as Davy finished relaying the story to his two best friends.

'Are you blind _and _deaf, Micky?!' Mike demanded. 'I could count his ribs _through his shirt, _for pity's sake! Also, I don't know how many instruments that guy plays. As well as piano, he's also pretty nifty with a bass and banjo. We could _use _this guy, man.'

'I know,' Micky said. 'It's just, it feels right with three, y'know? It's always three. Three blind mice, three musketeers, three wise men, three-'

'I know, I know,' Mike interrupted, holding up his hand for quiet. 'But let's face it. We aren't exactly the most successful at the moment. I dunno why, but when Peter was playing with us, it was… more complete. Maybe it's like a jigsaw puzzle. We fit together okay, but there's a piece missing. What if Peter's the final piece?'

'Crikey!' Davy commented. 'When did you go philosophical?'

'Who are you and what have you done to Mike?' Micky grinned.

Mike scowled.

'All I'm saying is, maybe this kid could be useful to us professionally, as well as at home. You never know, he might actually help us get this place organized…'

A millisecond after he said this, there was the sound of breaking china, followed by a strangled yelp.

'On the other hand…' Micky said, smiling broadly. 'Things could have just gotten a bit more fun!'


End file.
